


Revival: The Ongoing Second Life of the Young Dragon

by LucarioTheKing



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Almost Every Book by Roger Zelazny, And of course the source material and it's lack of value on human life, F/M, Free Time, If You Breathe too hard in it's general direction it might fall apart, Inspirations Include but are not limted to:, Just meant to be fun, Morrolan and the House of the Dragon from Steven Brust's Dragaera, Post - The Winds of Winter, The Epitome of Crack, random thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 03:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5852368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucarioTheKing/pseuds/LucarioTheKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I check my side for Blackfyre, hoping to feel it's familiar weight, instead I draw a fine sword, of regular castle steel. I run a finger on it and see blood being drawn. But that shouldn't be possible, because if memory serves me correctly, I'm dead."<br/>The greatest military leader in the history of Westeros, wakes up in the Dorne nearly a Century and a Half after his death, and decides, as you do, to mess around with absolutely everything he can.<br/>And when he hears of the dragons across the seas, well, he always had loved his uncle's stories about the Dance.</p>
<p>Disclaimer: I'm being very bad and taking these delightful characters that are all going to die, and giving them a second lease on life in the form of poorly thought out ways for the good guys to win. This is one of them, and the one I like best. Keep that in mind</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revival: The Ongoing Second Life of the Young Dragon

When I awoke, it was sunny, and I was covered in sand. Red sand, with grains the size of eyeballs. There is a river just to the north of my current position, and I can't think straight.

First things first, how the hell did I get here?

I mean the only desert in Westeros is… No, it can't be, there's no way I'm in Dorne, I'd conquered them, right?

A memory comes back to me, a raven from the Tyrells, telling me of their lord's death, of the Dornish bid for independence. I remember battles, glorious battles, where I felt the blood of my enemies running down Blackfyre.

I remember a bid for piece from the Martells, and I remember… Oh… I remember dying, at the hands of Marence Martell, I remember the deaths of my kingsguards, the capture of Aemon.

I check my side for Blackfyre, hoping to feel it's familiar weight, instead I draw a fine sword, of regular castle steel. I run a finger on it and see blood being drawn. But that shouldn't be possible, because if memory serves me correctly, I'm dead.

I see a young man ride up to me, white hair and purple eyes sizing me up as a potential target. Whoever it is is new to strategy, or just not very good at it. I identify his blade, as longsword that has a small blood stain on the edge, and the saddle of his horse, where I see a human ear.

“Greetings stranger.” Calls the man on horseback. “I don't know what business you could possibly have so close to High Hermitage, but I hope that you intended to tell it’s lord.”

My mind races with the information he just freely gave me. High Hermitage is in the Torrentine Mountains, and ruled by a cadet branch of the Daynes. It's also not particularly close to my death spot.

“Well met,” I reply, cautiously, I don't know what this man wants quite yet, and I sincerely hope that it has nothing to do with me. “And to whom would I talk?”

“Me.” The warrior responds simply.

“Ah, I personally am unsure of my own business here.” I say.

“A shame, I suppose that I have to kill you then.” He says as he draws his sword, I draw my own in response, and wait for him to make the first move.

He charges at me recklessly, swing his blade as though it were a mace, eyes locked on my neck. The sword comes down as his horse comes closer, and I raise my own sword to meet it. There is an ugly metallic crash and then he's behind me.

I hear his next charge before I see it, and turn around once more to meet it, this time, however, he's left his own neck wide open to attack, and so as I raise my own blade, I reflect his clumsy slice and quickly thrust up at his weak spot. I can feel his spine snap as my sword goes right through his neck, and I watch with mild amusement as he slowly realizes what happened, and falls out of his saddle.

His horse was a fine sand steed, and I hope, willing to be ridden by a complete stranger who had just come back from the dead after over a century and a half.

Thankfully, my assumption was correct, and I ride east, hoping to find who it is, or what it is, he was running from.

 

***

_ “Your grace,” I hear Aemon calling. “Is there any way you could, perhaps, slow down so us mere mortals have a chance?” _

_ “You're supposed to be the greatest knight in the world Aem, and somehow, you can't even catch me?” I call back. Still, I feel myself slowing down. _

_ I slowly see my cousin catch up with me, white cloak covered in dirt stains. Hair in disarray, and purple eyes scanning the area for danger. His mouth is open as he wheezes, and sweat is running down his face. _

_ “It’s not my fault that you like to try and kill your horses on every ride.” _

_ “If they don’t understand a fear of death, how will they serve me in battle?” _

_ “I suppose that you are the crown prince.” _

_ We ride as we talk, now at a more leisurely pace, myself and my cousin. It’s a beautiful day outside, and we plan to take full advantage of that. And by full advantage, I mean shirking off any and all responsibilities, and going out somewhere to hide. _

_ We hop off our horses in unison, Aemon goes one way, I go the other. For a reason I don’t truly understand. Suddenly there is a man in front of me, holding his blade to my neck as though he means to hold me for ransom. _

_ I walk backwards and duck at the same time, narrowly avoiding the steel cutting into my neck. I quickly draw my sword, which I called Blackspark, and started wildly hacking and slashing, yelling out to Aemon in the hopes of getting help. _

_ The man growls and starts a countermovement to disarm me, leaving his neck open. _

_ Aemon finds me hours later weeping next to the corpse, blade bloodied with the man’s lifeblood. _

 

***  


 

I have been riding for several days, stopping at the occasional inn, and using the dead knight’s coins to buy food, water, and shelter. I stopped and listened to any minstrels along the way, hoping to fill in the gaps in my knowledge of what was now history.

The only parts that ever truly leapt out were that Aegon was a shitty king (serves him right, asshole), Aemon was remembered forever, and may have fathered Daeron II, (I remember that little bugger, never was one for physical activity.) Daena’s son rebelled on those premises and lost, and the Targaryens lost the throne.

There were a few times too, when the merchants were well and truly drunk in the tavern of your choice, that a distant kinswomen of mine name Daenerys had hatched three dragons.

Another side effect of staying in a tavern is that you learn where you are, and I was rapidly approaching Sunspear. Excuse me for having some poor memories of the place, the last time I was there, I died. Really puts a damper on the mood.

There was never an exciting moment on the road, I was both pleased and appalled at the lack of highway robbers. Whomever is in charge here must be doing a really damn good job.

When I arrived at the Shadow City, I made sure to inquire about acquiring lodging for myself, and eventually bought a spacious little place near Sunspear, that had been previously owned by some punk with an attitude and gambling problem. Neither of those goes well when you encounter me.

I thought really quite hard of what to do when I was inside of my winnings, and decided that the best course of action would be to find a steady source of employment doing martial matters.

It was with that in mind that I walked to what I had observed to be the barracks for the local guard, and asked if they were interested in a knight. I was told, much to my dismay, to wait for them to check in with their boss. I then found out this boss wanted to see me, and I made my way with haste to the area I was told to go to.

There I found a man who looked to be a Norvoshi priest, judging solely by his longaxe and beard that would have put Baelor’s to shame.

“You are?” the Norvoshi man asked, with a barely noticeable accent compared to the other Dornishmen.

“Ser Dalton of the Torrentine.” I replied, deciding on my pseudonym on the spot.

“Who knighted you?”

_ Ser Aemon Targaryen  _ I thought, and seriously debated saying it just to say the reaction. However, my mouth made out with a “Lord Alaric Dayne.”. "And who the fuck is Alaric Dyane?". You may be asking, well, to be honest, I have no fucking idea. It seems however, to go over well with the scary guy with the beard across from me, who nods as if to say ‘Well, I know that Alaric would do something like that.’

“We are always in need of good men for the guard. You start tomorrow, report here to receive your plate and assignment. Good day.”

I walked away quite pleased with myself, knowing that life would continue as normal as it is for a reincarnated king to serve in his mortal enemies descendants palatial guard.

 

***  


  
  



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